


Erigone Is Buying Rope

by SicklyRaven



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern Setting, Possibly Unrequited Love, Stargazing, Suicidal Thoughts, gross sex, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SicklyRaven/pseuds/SicklyRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, I couldn't sleep because my mother and uncle are so loud when they fuck that I can hear them through the wall, so freezing to death did look like the most tempting option."</p><p>Hamlet wishes he were dead, or at least deaf. Horatio wishes he stopped saying that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erigone Is Buying Rope

Elsinore needs thicker walls. Hamlet is going to see to it as soon as he inherits the place. Or not, because for him to inherit the place both his mother and Claudius would have to die, and with them gone there would be no need to soundproof the building in the first place.

Maybe he can move to another room, then. The one he's sleeping in now is adjacent to his mother's, and he hears everything. Fucking _everything_. The conversational comments about dinner, the weather, politics. Gertrude complaining about Polonius and how he's always around and always, _always_ has something to say. Claudius complaining about Hamlet and Gertrude not disagreeing with him. The stupid pet names he gives her. The two of them laughing. Even the rustling of clothes being discarded to the floor, if Hamlet is quiet enough – and God knows he doesn't want to be, he wants to cover his ears and sing loud nonsense like a madman he saw once, loud enough to make him forget not only his surroundings but also who he is and was and will never be.

For some reason he can't. For some sick, masochistic reason he finds himself holding his breath, struggling to hear every note of the sordid melody.

It starts with his mother's giggling, high-pitched and intoxicated. Then come Claudius' lewd whispers, and the laughing gets louder for a moment before subsiding gently, swallowed by a first groan, and a second and shit, Hamlet has fucked a few girls who were a bit more vocal than it's socially acceptable but none of them sounded quite like this. His mother moans like it's a battle cry, no, a victory song, like she's only herself when she's being owned by the shady little man sweating all over her and she wants everyone to know it. Claudius is quieter than her, almost apologetic. Maybe each thrust reminds him of what he did to win that woman for himself, Hamlet thinks. Maybe he has his own sick melody to listen to, _murderer_ , _murderer_ , _murderer_ , _murderer_ , death and sex mixing up together until he doesn't know the difference anymore, which one gives him more pleasure and which one he fears the most. Maybe that's why he worships Gertrude's body with whispered prayers the whole time – he has forsaken his old god by killing for her and she's the only one he can ask for absolution now.

Finally, the reality of what is going on hits Hamlet and all of a sudden it feels like his room is too big and the walls and ceiling are closing down on him all at the same time. His mother is still screaming and he needs to get out of here, he needs air, God, he needs to get out, he needs to go far far away and never come back home. If you can call home an endless number of rooms that keep shouting _your father was here and he's never coming back_ , a mother who's selling herself to the first offerer, and an unshakable certainty that he won't feel like he belongs here ever again.

He stumbles out of his bedroom, not bothering to throw on anything warmer than the T-shirt and sweats he sleeps in. He knows he'll regret it, because it's late October and it's freezing cold at night, but he feels too spent to even think about hunting down a coat in the mess of his room. He does take the time to steal a bottle of Scotch from his parents' (well, his mother and uncle's, now) cabinet instead. If ever there was a night he needed to get spectacularly drunk, it was this one.

Hamlet makes it to the roof before getting sick. He hasn't eaten anything since... God, lunch the previous day, so he only ends up doing a lot of dry-heaving. He supposes he should be glad he isn't making a mess for someone else to clean, but the taste of bile isn't doing anything to make him feel better. Nor is the synchronized moaning of his mother and uncle still playing in a loop in his head. He spits, trying to get rid of the bitterness, and mutters a curse. It wasn't enough to be subjected to the spectacle of those two during the day – the not-so-subtle little touches and the not-so-private chortling and the leaning disgustingly close to whisper in each other's ears, now he has to listen to them too, night after night after night. No wonder he's going crazy.

This is how Horatio finds him – shaking from the cold and nausea, taking long gulp after long gulp of the whiskey and cursing to himself in a louder voice than he thinks.

"Hamlet?" Horatio inquires, because he knows his friend like the back of his hand but his brain doesn't want to admit that the broken boy in front of him is the same who shone brighter than anyone else in Horatio's life no longer than a month ago. It's only a couple seconds later that he realizes with no doubt that yes, that's indeed Hamlet drinking his liver off on the rooftop, and Horatio's rushing to his side and taking off his coat to wrap it around him. "Shit, Hamlet, what are you doing outside at this ungodly hour?"

There's something alarmingly empty in Hamlet's eyes and voice when he shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."

"Not a good reason to come out here and freeze to death," Horatio rebukes him. He's fastening the buttons of his own coat for Hamlet now and any other day Hamlet would be grateful there's still one person giving a shit about him, but for some reason Horatio's tone and fussing rub him the wrong way tonight.

"Well, I couldn't sleep because my mother and uncle are so loud when they fuck that I can hear them through the wall, so freezing to death did look like the most tempting option."

At least Horatio has the decency to stop fretting at that and act properly horrified. "God. God, Hamlet, I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," Hamlet says, and he's back to that tone that makes Horatio's blood chill in his veins.

"Then don't punish me," he pleads. "Stop saying you want to die."

"But I do."

"I know. That's why I can't stand to hear you say it."

Hamlet is silent for a little while before handing the bottle to Horatio. "Thirsty?"

There's nothing subtle about the change of subject, but Horatio doesn't say anything. He just nods and takes a swig.

When Horatio meets his eyes again, Hamlet is arching an eyebrow.

"What?" Horatio asks.

"You're quite the hypocrite. Berating me for coming out in the cold when you've been here for God knows how long."

"At least I had the sense to grab a coat," Horatio says. "And I haven't been outside for long. I only walked Marcellus to his spot."

Hamlet smirks. "Secret trysts in the moonlight, huh? Should I be jealous?"

"There's no moon tonight," Horatio feels compelled to point out.

"Of course. We agreed I wouldn't hold it against you if you cheated on me on a cloudy night."

"Are you okay?" Horatio asks, because if Hamlet's decided to stop taking care of himself someone else will have to do it for him.

"Always," Hamlet says in a cheery voice, and his fake smile is begging everyone to see how not okay he is.

Horatio sees it. "You're not, you're shaking," he counters. "Come on, let's go back."

He grabs Hamlet by a sleeve of his coat, but his friend doesn't let him guide him inside. "It's not the cold. It'll only be worse if I go back." He shakes off Horatio's hand and turns back, goes to sit over the edge of the rooftop. Horatio sighs, and follows.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a while, because Hamlet is just staring in the distance and Horatio isn't used to hearing his silence for more than a few seconds at a time.

Hamlet takes another long gulp of the whiskey, and his breath is burning with alcohol when he declares: "I'm never getting married." He furrows his brow. "No, scratch that. I'm never having sex again. I'm never kissing anyone again, or even thinking about it. God, Horatio, I can't believe I ever chased after girls. The human body is so disgusting, why would I want to take – to own – another one when all I really want is to get rid of my own?"

It's hard to give Hamlet's words any credit when he's sitting right next to Horatio, the embodiment of every argument that could be made against his case. Disgusting? Here and now, with his cheeks flushed by the cold and the liquor, the city lights from far below shining on his face just bright enough to show how dark his eyes are, he is the most beautiful thing Horatio has ever seen.

Okay, maybe he's a little drunk too. He looks away. "It's the night and trauma talking. I'm sure you'll feel more like yourself tomorrow."

Hamlet shakes his head, violently. "I won't. I swear, I won't feel like before for as long as I live."

"Mm. And what does Ophelia think of this solemn new vow of yours?"

"Ophelia!" Her name sounds foreign in his mouth, like he hasn't said it in a long time, and Horatio thinks maybe he shouldn't have brought her up. "I haven't talked to her since the wedding. Or rather, _she_ hasn't talked to _me_."

"That's very strange," Horatio observes.

"Not really," Hamlet says, a little too quickly.

"Why not?"

"Calculation, my friend. She must have realized that as soon as Mother and Uncle Dearest have a heir of their own – and trust me, it won't be long with the effort they're putting into it – I'll be conveniently swept under the rug. And what is she going to gain from a marriage to a forgotten son?"

"It doesn't sound like the girl whose praise you've been singing for the last two years."

Hamlet huffs, his breath materializing in a little cloud before melting away. "What can I say? I was a romantic. I fell in love with the idea of a sweet, innocent child untouched by the corruption of this world of mine. A real girl – no, a real person, whose blushes and bold flirtations were the truthful companions of something new and exciting like first love rather than variations of the trite charade everyone around me seems to be a prisoner of. But love – love is the biggest charade of all. There's no love without politics – so there's no love, not like the one the singers and poets and hopeless dreamers of all times go on and on about. And it makes sense, doesn't it?" he asks, and he's still avoiding Horatio's eyes, looking in the direction of the city below them without really taking it in. "We only want what we don't have. For love to be the be all end all of our miserable little race, it must be something no one really has. A utopia. A pleasant dream of the waking hours, when we can think clearly enough to realize it isn't real but are still too hazy to find the strength to let it fade away."

"That's really depressing."

A self-deprecating smirk. "Haven't you heard? I'm going through an emo phase."

"Because a girl broke your heart," Horatio finishes automatically, but the ridiculous rumor everyone in Elsinore has heard about these days sounds less ridiculous now. "Christ, I really thought things between you two were alright. That you were just letting people believe their own lie."

"I don't want to talk about Ophelia anymore," Hamlet says, suddenly but not unkindly. "Can we please not talk about her? Or love and desire and all that binds us to our flesh and makes us more beastly than divine?"

Horatio wants to point out that off the top of his head he can think of at least twenty-four people (all affirmed authors and poets Hamlet has praised time and time again) who would claim love to be the most divine of human feelings. Or how quirky it is that the more Hamlet drinks, the more articulate he seems to get. How it's just one of the endless things Horatio loves about him.

It's not about what Horatio wants, though. It's never been. "Of course. What do you want to talk about?"

For a while Hamlet doesn't say anything, his eyes very far. Then: "How long does it take to bleed to death if you slit both your wrists?"

"Fuck, Hamlet, but you really are going through an emo phase."

"Fine, fine." Hamlet chews on his lower lip, pensive. He used to do that in Wittenberg too – usually when he was coming up with a new way to torment Horatio. "Can you point out the constellations to me, then? I only know the Ursa Major but you can recognize all of them, can't you?" He smiles, more to himself than for Horatio's sake, and Horatio knows it but can't help smiling back. "I remember from that night we were out of town. You remember that night, yeah? With Rosencrantz and that cute girl who collected beer caps?" Another swig of the liquor. "Where were we anyway?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Hamlet looks affronted. "What do you mean you have no idea, I'm sure you were there, there was this cute girl who collected beer caps and Rosencrantz tried to set you up with her?"

"Hamlet, I'm serious, it never happened. Maybe you just got drunk and imagined the whole thing."

"Maybe _you_ got drunk and forgot all about it."

"Maybe. It does sound like the kind of night I'd rather forget." He gestures for Hamlet to hand him the whiskey, takes a swig, and gives it back. "But I do know the constellations." There's only the small matter of the city lights being too bright for a single star to be seen. Horatio wonders whether Hamlet is so drunk he didn't notice or he's just being his usual weird self. He decides it doesn't matter. "Okay, so, you said you can recognize the Great Bear. Can you point it out to me?"

"Of course I can't. Light pollution. And it's too cloudy anyway."

Just being his usual weird self it is, then. "Then why'd you ask me to show you the constellations if you know it's impossible?" Horatio asks, and he doesn't know whether he's just annoyed or genuinely curious too.

"I don't know. I just wanted to see them, and if anyone can show them to me even though it's impossible it's you."

Leave it to Hamlet to ask for the moon and make you actually want to give it to him.

"That's really sweet. And insane."

"Hey, that's exactly what my aunt-mother and uncle-father call me. Except for the 'sweet' part."

"And you haven't done anything to support this perception they have of you?"

"I'm just playing my role. Giving the people what they want and all." To Horatio's skeptical look he asks, in mock surprise: "What, you don't believe in giving the people what they want?"

"I don't. And neither do you," Horatio says, even though he doesn't need to. "I can give _you_ what you want, though," he promises, leaving his place next to Hamlet to move right behind him, close enough that he's talking directly into his ear. He doesn't miss the way his friend's breath catches when he does, nor how easily he lets him take his hand to point it at the sky. Maybe he really didn't mean what he swore before. Maybe there's a chance he...

Horatio clears his throat and focuses on the star map in his head. "Alright. Over there... no, a little more to the left – okay stop, that's it. That's where the Big Dipper is."

"There?"

"Yes."

"So we just have to go right to find the rest of the Great Bear," Hamlet says, hesitant, like he learned this a long time ago and never had a reason to talk about it again until now.

He remembers well, anyway. "Exactly. Like this." Horatio guides Hamlet's hand to outline the rest of the constellation.

"And this is where my knowledge about stars starts to fail me," Hamlet confesses.

"That's okay. I can find the way for the both of us," Horatio says, and it's true. "Look at the two front stars of the Big Dipper again. Can you imagine a line connecting them?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now project that line all the way down... further, further... And there."

"What am I pointing at?" Hamlet asks.

"The North Star."

"The brightest of all stars?"

"Not really. But don't worry, it's a common misconception. The brightest star is actually Sirius, in the Canis Major," he explains. "Do you want to find that one too?"

"Yes please," is Hamlet's instant reply, and if imagining stars is what it takes to get his mind away from the heavy thoughts it's been entertaining lately Horatio is ready to spend the whole night out here with him for as long as he lives.

"Okay. First things first, we need to find Orion. We're lucky it's winter or we wouldn't be able to see it." He points where the constellation would be, far below the star they were gazing at before. "See those three stars, bright and close, over there?"

It makes no sense, of course, but Hamlet plays along. "Yes."

"That's Orion's Belt. The best way to find Sirius is to take those three stars and draw a line that way" – he guides Hamlet's finger southwest – "until you get to a star brighter than the others. And there you go – Sirius."

And Hamlet actually looks at the portion of sky Horatio is showing him, with such rapt concentration that Horatio almost expects Sirius to start shining through the clouds just for the two of them. He's almost disappointed when it doesn't. But then Hamlet is turning to look at him, and he's so close and his eyes are shining brighter than Sirius ever could and Horatio forgets everything about stars.

"You're incredible," Hamlet says.

And Horatio wonders, not for the first time, what would happen if he closed the already insignificant distance between them. And – not for the first time – he finds himself incapable of answering his own question. He can't imagine Hamlet recoiling in disgust, not with the way he's always standing a bit too close to Horatio, not with how he's looking at him right now, like he's a part of him, and the one he likes best. He can't imagine Hamlet kissing back, because Hamlet knows he can have anything from Horatio and if he'd wanted this he would have taken it long ago.

So Horatio breaks eye contact, and he moves back to his place by Hamlet's side. There, at least, he knows he belongs. "Thanks, but it's nothing," he shrugs off the comment. "Everyone knows those stars."

"My father did. My real father, I mean," Hamlet clarifies, unnecessarily. "Whenever we got someplace we could see the stars he'd stop and stare at them for what felt like hours. He showed me how to find the North Star countless times, and probably other stars too. I always forgot, though." He smiles, like for the first time he can think about his father and long for him and be okay with it. "So I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't expect anything you've taught me to stick. I'm constellation-impaired."

"That's okay," Horatio murmurs. "I'm just glad I could show them to you tonight."

"Me too. I knew you'd work a miracle for me." Hamlet looks up and sighs. "How do you think it's possible that we're made of the same matter, stars and us, and they're so perfect and untouchable and pure while we're... human?"

"There was a time you thought man was the most spectacular creation of all," Horatio recalls. God, it feels like ages ago but it's been what, a month? Two? "Remember? I'd look at the stars and quake at how insignificant we are, how absolutely nothing we do or say or think matters outside the bubble of our little lives and you'd scold me, you'd say nothing in this world can compare to us because even the most humble of men is himself as big as the world, and just as full of wonders."

Hamlet looks unconvinced. "Then it seems that once again I was wrong and you were right."

"I wasn't right," Horatio scoffs. "I don't know if you were, either, but for my part I couldn't have been more wrong. We do matter."

"Only until we die. Then we'll be nothing but dust, and the new humanity walking all over us won't care what we used to be."

This is still Hamlet's fear, then. Death. Forget the backstabbing and corruption, forget the so-called weaknesses of the flesh, it's mortality that really sets men and gods apart. Horatio would give anything to bring his friend back to the simpler times before his father's passing, when death was something that only happened to someone else, a device they used in stories to raise the pathos and make the characters learn something.

"Do you know our perception of the sky is a few billions years late?" he asks.

Hamlet looks surprised, more at the supposed change of subject than at the information itself. "Yes. The stars are so distant that as fast as light is, it still takes it ages to get from them to us."

"Exactly. Which means the stars we see shining bright could have been dead for centuries before we were even born."

"So what are you saying? That our actions have an impact on others long after we've gone?"

"Sometimes. That's not my point, though." Horatio looks up and says nothing, struggling to find the right words. When he realizes he could be here all night and never find them he settles for the ones he has. "See, the thing about stars is... we have no way of determining whether they've burnt out. Maybe they're still the same as how we see them, or we might be looking at nothing but a graveyard. There will be no proof either way in years, billions for the farthest ones, and by then it'll be too late for you and me to find out."

Hamlet shakes his head. "I'm sorry, how is that even remotely reassuring?"

"Because we looked at the sky tonight and we didn't wonder about any of this." Horatio turns to Hamlet and finds he's already staring at him. He swallows. "Who cares what discoveries are made when we're dead? Tonight, to us, they were there and they mattered."

"We're still going to die, though," Hamlet argues, his voice impossibly small.

"But we're not dead yet," Horatio says, wanting Hamlet to understand so bad and not even knowing why. "Right here and now, we matter. Isn't that enough?"

"I guess," Hamlet says, and for a moment Horatio thinks he might really agree.

 

 


End file.
